


it's a love song (it's a sad song)

by echoesofstardust



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Adultery, Angst, F/M, Second person POV, Tragic Love, tristan/isolde inspired AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:13:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoesofstardust/pseuds/echoesofstardust
Summary: Love, they say, is everything worth living for.





	it's a love song (it's a sad song)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lapetitemort20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapetitemort20/gifts).

> Dear LPM,
> 
> Happy birthday! I can never thank you enough for all that you've given me - your kindness, friendship, generosity. You inspire me every day, and help me to believe in my writing...even when I'm doubting myself. Your support means the world. Here's the Tristan/Isolde inspired fic you asked for, although you'll have to forgive me with how much I messed around and picked and chose aspects from the different versions of the tale. Also, I feel like an epic love story like Tristan and Isolde's probably deserves a much, much longer fic...nevertheless, I hope you like it! It's my humble gift to you. <3

_ If the ship carries you, I ask that the sails be the white of sunlight on pure snow. If the ship carries you not, may the sails be as black as a night sky that’s empty of starlight. _

–

Love, they say, is everything worth living for. 

But what of death? You think. You are lying on your deathbed, you are sure, unless, _ unless _—do you dare wonder, do you dare hope? You had sent the missive long enough ago that it is possible she is holding it in her hands. Is she reading your words, written with your desperate, trembling hand? Or has she cast it aside the moment she saw that it was from you—you who had not written her anything, spoken to her, since your painful farewell all those years ago? 

You find that you cannot lay blame on her should the latter have occurred. You who have loved her most. You who have hurt her most. When you try to picture her, you find it difficult to recall her with perfect clarity, years upon years of trying to recollect memories diluting them. The timbre of her voice, the shade of her eyes, the way her body fit against yours: the details are blurry now. You wish that they could have remained crystalline.

You murmur to yourself that she will likely not come. It is understandable, you know that. Who are you to her now, anyway? A past lover, an old friend, a stranger? You sigh. The act of breathing hurts more often than not now. You murmur to yourself that she will likely not come and yet you stare out the biggest window in your quarters, the ones that look out towards the sea.

You rationalise with your head that you have accepted that she is not coming. And yet you hope with your heart that she will.

If she comes—and it is a very big _ if_—you remind your hopeful heart, you think about how similar the end will be to your beginning. You: the wounded. She: the one to heal. When you try to remember when you first began to love her, you wonder if it was then; when she patched up your wounds and put you back together, putting pieces of her in the pockets of you without you noticing. 

And you, you had given yourself to her from the very first frown. 

She had entered your quarters muttering about 'men' and 'idiocy' and 'hotheadedness' and you remember the guilt that flushed you red all over. You had been sent by your king to slay an enemy in her kingdom and you had succeeded, but not unscathed.

The moment she turned her piercing eyes towards you, she'd stolen every breath from your poor lungs, which were already struggling. You had meekly apologised which took her aback, you remember. She had the gentlest of touches but you had gritted your teeth through the scorching, fiery pain that tore through your muscles. You didn't want to make a sound, lest she think you were ungrateful.

"Thank you…?" Your sentence had risen at the end. Asking for a name to express your gratitude to. 

"Tessa. It's Tessa."

"Thank you, Tessa."

She had offered you the smallest smile before leaving you. You had made it your mission to coax a wider smile from her every time she came in to change your bandages, to make sure you take some unusual, foul-tasting concoction meant to make your body heal itself faster.

You think you fell in love the first time you heard her laugh. You don’t remember the joke you cracked now, perhaps something about your clumsiness that led to your injury. The way it startled out of her, like she was not used to laughing often, the way it sounded bigger and wider than what you expected from someone as poised as her.

You remember having to say goodbye the first time, returning to your King. You remember praising her, this princess who healed you, and you must have sung her praises so melodically as your king sent you to ask for her hand. You try not to remember how you had frozen, your heart cracking, meekly nodding and setting off on your journey again. 

You remember seeing her again, the joy that lit her eyes when her eyes landed on you. You remember asking her father for your hand on behalf of your king. You couldn't bear to look at her. 

You remember the whispered conversation she had dragged you into, a secluded alcove in her palace.

"Scott, why—"

You had swallowed, a hand at the hilt of your sword, avoiding her eyes. "I told my king of your beauty, your kindness. He would like for you to be his queen.”

"But, but—” you had sensed her agitation in the way she could not keep her hands still, fingers wringing “—he's not the one I love!"

Her words had hit you like a slap on your cheek. It had forced you to meet her eyes, her green ones burning. As dangerous as it is, as forbidden as it is, you had let your fingers touch her cheek, let them graze her skin, let them linger.

You had tried to convey with your fingertips what your lips could not. 

_ I love you. _

You remember the voyage back to your kingdom, the vial full of clear liquid she showed you. Her mother had made it, she said. A love potion so that the drinkers who shared it would be madly in love for eternity. Her mother had made it for her to share with the king.

You had expected it to hurt, you remember, the thought of her falling in love with someone else. But you remember thinking that it was better this way. It was better that only your heart should suffer and not hers.

Except she had thrown the vial with all her might overboard the ship, disappearing into the cerulean sea. 

And she had pulled you in, touched her lips to yours, and with that—you were gone.

You remember both dark and moonlit nights memorising the way her body felt in your hands, the sounds you could coax from her, the taste of her mouth and between her thighs. You remember promising yourself just one night, just one stolen moment, but you were selfish. 

She became your king’s wife, and your queen, and still you shared her bed.

You remember the court’s whispers growing too loud, your king and his ministers growing too suspicious, one too many instances where you were nearly caught.

You, you know the sins you bear, the mistakes etched in scars on both your body and soul. But you could not let yourself let Tessa, your sweet Tessa, fall from grace. You could not let her be shamed simply because you love her. 

And so you left. With the most painful of farewells. You had wondered if it was easier to leave her without telling her—perhaps merely leaving a note. But you didn’t. She deserved more than that. All your memories are blurry but you remember that last night with eidetic clarity. Neither of you could stop your tears, each other’s lips tracing the path traced by the tears that had fallen already. 

You remember dawn breaking, a sunrise marking an end instead of a beginning. You remember chasing kisses, promising yourself that each one would be the last, except you couldn’t help but think _ just one more_.

You don’t remember how you walked away. Only that once you did, you couldn’t bring yourself to look back.

Who are you then to think that she would come to save you? Who are you to think that she could care for you still? Who are you but a coward and a weak man, someone who’s made a thousand mistakes? Who are you but someone who left her behind?

You were just trying to be selfless, you argue against the doubting voice in your head. Tessa, with all her grace and intelligence and kindness, had always deserved to be a queen. She was never meant for you, you know that, and yet you selfishly loved her. 

Who are you but someone who broke her heart? The voice in your head taunts back. No matter how selfless the act that causes pain, the pain is caused anyway and the heart, the heart does not discern between good and bad intentions when it’s been cleaved in two.

Who are you for her to brave a long voyage, for her to heal with her widely required talents? You know that, perhaps, you are not worth it, and yet you hope. You will always, always hope until she gives you reason not to.

Your wife stands at the window. Her hands are clasped together in front of her in a regal, stately stance. She is proclaimed beautiful by your kingdom, and you suppose she is in a cold, distant way; her beauty is that of the snow-capped mountains that lie just on the horizon.

“The ships have come,” murmurs she, facing away from you and drawing the curtains closed.

“And the sails?” you croak. Your festering wound drains what little is left of your strength but if Tessa, your Tessa, were to come, you would hold onto this life by whatever threads you require.

Your wife, this woman you should have loved but never could for your heart forever belonged to another, tenses. Her posture stiffens. She does not answer for what feels like an eternity. “Black, milord.”

_ Black_. 

She has not come.

–

The moment you received his letter, you began preparations for the voyage before you had realised what you were doing. Your tongue ordering the ships to be prepared, your hands gathering the provisions to be packed, your mind listing your most trusted people, the ones who you would want to come with you on this journey.

You have wondered if the heart can forget how to love. Nay, you have wondered if you had ever loved him as much as you think you had, or if he was just a blissful dream conjured by desperation and imagination. You have questioned through the years if what you had was as true as what you want it to be, or if it was just as false as the mountains’ reflection on the lake, easily pierced by a skipped stone.

And yet it only took one glance at his eternally messy scrawl to reveal to her that the heart does not forget to love. It merely lets it sleep, lets it bury itself like a seed in hidden crevices of her body, lets it grow undeterred through years and years until it awakens, prodded by the gentle burst of sunlight that is him, and her love for him pours forth, stronger and deeper than what she could remember.

_ My dearest, Tessa, _ it had began. And she had begun to sob.

_ I hope this letter finds you and your kingdom well. I know that you have led it to prosperity and greatness—I have never heard any one person from your kingdom speak ill of their Queen. I hear of your name and I smile, Tess. I know that you were always destined for the greatest things. _

_ I know, also, that there is a great chance that you have not forgiven me for leaving you, that you are angry or that you despise me for every hurt I have ever caused you. I accept it all; I do not blame you if you can only think of my name in that way. _

_ But I am a desperate man, and I am dying. I am wounded and I believe there was some magic involved as I am not healing. Tessa, I know it is selfish of me to ask, yet I ask it of you: could you visit me and examine the wounds? Selfishly, I ask, could you heal me if it is within your abilities? _

_ Should I be destined for death’s arms and eternal slumber, should my wounds not heal, will you come and allow me to see your eyes again, to hold your hand one last time before I leave this world? _

_ If the ship carries you, I ask that the sails be the white of sunlight on pure snow. If the ship carries you not, may the sails be as black as a night sky that’s empty of starlight. _

_ Yours eternally, _

_ Scott _

The ship had barely docked into their port when you made your way to the palace as quickly as you can, bringing the best of your healing supplies. Your grandmother used to say that you were touched by magic as a child, and you were never sure if she said that in jest or seriousness. Nevertheless, you have long since made a reputation for healing and while you have studied extensively, trained with the most skilled in your kingdom and beyond, you are humble enough to acknowledge that some of the illnesses you have healed are beyond the capacity of a mere mortal.

You pray that whatever goddess, spirit or fae that has blessed you will continue to bless you today.

You are expected by his servants and led to his quarters. You wonder why they move so slowly, but you assume that anyone’s movements must seem lethargic compared to your agitated desperation.

His wife stands in a corner of his room, sheathed in shadows. You don’t know her, but you know her name. It is the same as yours. You still remember learning of the news that Scott had wed. Your eyes still ache with the memory of your tears shed.

You collapse on your knees beside his bed, your basket of healing supplies unceremoniously laid beside you. 

“Scott?” you whisper. You ghost your hand across his forehead, expecting a feverish heat, sweat beading. You find that you are missing something. You feel his temples, beneath his jaw, his wrist, his chest. 

You are missing his pulse.

Your heart races but you take a deep breath. Perhaps, you merely did not feel for it correctly. Perhaps, you are simply too nervous and are not comprehending the situation. Scott cannot be—he cannot be—

No matter how many times you search for his heartbeat, the one you used to feel beneath your cheek and palm, you cannot find it.

He is gone.

You cannot help the sob that tears out of your throat. You do not know how long you cry for. It does not matter, in the end, for Scott is dead. 

“How long?” you whisper.

“An hour, perhaps,” his wife, his widow now, replies. Her tone is cool and even, a contrast to you.

“An hour?” you repeat, looking at this woman. If the ship had been any quicker, if the carriage had been any faster, if if if—

You look at his injury, of which the extent of the infection is so severe you idly wonder how he hasn’t died earlier. If he had held on for so long, then why had he not have held onto this life for an hour longer?

“You knew I was going to come, didn’t you, Scott?” you ask, your voice breaking like your heart. You don’t know why you ask. You know he won’t answer. You know you will never hear his voice again.

Something in what you say sparks some flint of anger in his widow. Her words are no longer cool or even—they are bitten and snarling. “He looked out _ that _ window every moment for your ship to come.”

Scott believed in her, hoped in her. But why—

“The sails,” you grit out. “He should have known I was on the ship as the sails were white, as he asked.”

The other woman says nothing, but you hear the stutter in her breathing.

“Weakened by his injury,” you stand and walk towards her, “he would not have been able to see out the window clearly. I assume he would have inquired of you the colour of my sails.”

You prefer kindness and gentleness, the embodiment of a healer, but woe to those who forget that you are as capable of sharpness and attack as any warrior. The other woman visibly cowers, and yet you find no satisfaction.

“What colour did you say?” You emphasise each word like the puncture of a needle in a suture.

She attempts to hold your gaze but you do not break. She looks away, whimpering like a defeated animal, “Black.”

You have never known anger the way you know it now. Minstrels have described anger in their ballads like a blazing fire, a thousand suns. It is not that. 

It is a cold blackness. The darkest winter night. Slow silver lead seeping through your veins making you feel heavier than Atlas with the world on his shoulders. 

_ How could you be so selfish? _ You scream in your head. Scott, perhaps the best man you have known, lost this life because of an emotion as primitive as jealousy. _ What could you be jealous of me for? _ She was the one who had the privilege of spending a lifetime with Scott. You want to beg her for an answer. You want to know why she could not have let Scott live.

But you know selfishness and you know jealousy like old friends. Selfishness, your selfishness, led you all down this path all those years ago. From the moment you decided to love him, damning all the consequences. You were willing to pay the price. 

You just hadn’t realised that the price would eventually be his life.

And you realise he left this life thinking that you had forgotten him. And that, that shatters your heart more than any other farewell the two of you had endured.

–

His gravestone is simpler than what one would expect of a nobleman. 

The ceremony was elaborate, the speeches grandiose, the mourning of his people almost deafening. It does not surprise you that Scott had lived to be beloved by his people. One of the things you loved—

You take a shaky breath and try not to cry. Must you use the past tense ‘loved’? Yes, Scott is gone, but your love for him is not. It’ll stay with you until the day you, too, die. You recollect your thoughts. One of the things you love most about him is that big, big, open heart of his.

There is no one around now when you visit him. You reach out with your palm to feel the cool, smooth stone, fingers curling around the edges. You have cried so much that you feel hollow. If someone knocked on your body, you think the sound would echo the way it does for empty wooden boxes and monarchs’ empty promises.

“Scott.” It’s a whisper on the wind. Only the stars hear you.

You recount in broken murmurs whatever pieces of memories that come to your mind. From the first meeting to the last moment, you speak about it as if he is there with you. If you try hard enough, you think you can see the way he used to look at you. If you close your eyes long enough, you think you can feel the weight of his hand in yours.

You list in stilted sobs every facet of him that made you fall in love. His handsomeness that you noticed from the first meeting, even though you tried to hide it. His humility and the way he never boasted about his accomplishments. His kindness in the way he treats all the people he comes across, from the servants to the nobility, with the same respect. His energy, and his passion when he truly believed in something. His open heart and generosity when you heard about how he always visited the orphanages of his kingdom and spent time with the children there. The way being in his arms and looking in his eyes always made you feel like you were in the safest place you could ever be. The way his hand held yours. Is it minutes or hours that you spend there with him? You do not know. 

You do not yet know that you do not have long left in this world, that people do die of broken hearts. 

You do not yet know that they will bury your body beside his, or whether that gesture is one of guilt or resignation from his widow. You do not yet know that a hazel tree will grow from his grave, and the honeysuckle from yours—that the two will intertwine in an eternal embrace, for one will die without the other.

You only think, _ Perhaps there are a million lifetimes where we will find each other again. _

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think that our timeline is one of the lifetimes where this Tessa and Scott found each other again.
> 
> The title of this fic is from 'Road to Hell' from the musical 'Hadestown'. 'Doubt Comes In', another song from the musical, definitely inspired a lot of Scott's inner monologue. And I totally agree with @fridayfeeling89's [tweets](https://twitter.com/fridayfeeling89/status/1184295147657449474) about Hadestown having a million VM parallels...thank you, love, for making me cry over both VM and Hadestown.
> 
> As always, you can find me as [stardust_echoes](https://twitter.com/stardust_echoes) on twitter and as [echoesofstardust](https://echoesofstardust.tumblr.com/) on tumblr
> 
> Wishing you a lovely day <3


End file.
